


The Prince and The Painter

by duckgirlie



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Fairy Tale Curses, M/M, Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-23
Updated: 2015-11-23
Packaged: 2018-05-02 23:27:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5267873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duckgirlie/pseuds/duckgirlie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once upon a time in a Kingdom far far away, there was a Prince in a tower, cursed to sleep until woken by his true love. The King and Queen had nearly given up hope, fearing true love was out of his reach.</p><p>Until one day, a stranger arrived in the kingdom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Prince and The Painter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ToraK (torakowalski)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/torakowalski/gifts).



> So many months ago, Tora was having a bad day and asked for a story, so I started telling her this one and... it got longer then expected. It started off much closer to Sleeping Beauty, but then there was a fair whack of Beauty and The Beast and even a little sprinkling of Shrek, and now here we are.
> 
> This story would probably not exist without Tora, Katie, and DF cheerleading as I randomly sent it to them scene-by-scene over the course of four months, and it 100% would not exist in this form without DF's betaing, as she wrangled my absolute failure to stick to one tense and inability to spell anything consistantly, and on more then one occasion just wholesale re-wrote paragraphs that didn't work when I was being too grouchy/lazy to do it myself. (Seriously, the first 3k was written on twitter, the original draft was a _mess_ ) Thank you all darlings <333

Once upon a time, in a kingdom far away, there lived a Prince named Enjolras with hair like gold and lips as red as roses. 

Princes are born to rule, but the task of leading a kingdom was a difficult one to undertake alone, and his parents wished to find him someone to share his life and his throne. Many neighbouring kings offered their children in marriage, but Enjolras’ parents had been lucky enough to marry for love, and their wish was for their son to be able to do the same. But after years of searching, they were unable to find anyone.

Enjolras was always a serious boy, even when just a young prince, and he loved his people even then and swore he would never love anyone so much as he loved his country.

However, as Enjolras grew older, he learned more about his country and grew dissatisfied with the way it worked. He knew his parents were kind people who tried to be fair and just, but that didn't mean they always were, and he felt it was only just that the people should have more of a say in the running of their kingdom. He felt it was better to be unhappy about something you had freely chosen for yourself then to be satisfied with the choice someone has made for you. He started to make these opinions known as he grew older, while his parents indulged his theories, they never took them seriously. They were sure that eventually he would understand that some people are born to rule and some are born to be ruled and that was the way of things.

 

But Enjolras didn't change his mind, and the more he learned and the more he spoke to his subjects, the stronger his convictions grew. His parents didn't worry, because he was still young. But they were not the only ones listening.

The next kingdom over was larger and ruled by a more tyrannical king, who feared that if the Enjolras’ theories about democracy and the rights of subjects became reality, it could only be bad for his kingdom and the areas around it. If one king started to pay closer attention to the wishes of his people, surely the people of other kingdoms would start to demand the same. So just before Enjolras' 18th birthday, this king went out to the forest to find a Fairy who would make a deal.

Fairies are scary things, but this king was too caught up in his self importance to be afraid, and he asked that the Fairy put an end to Enjolras and his meddling. The Fairy explained that while they couldn't kill people, there were other options open, provided that the King promised them three favours in return. The King, too obsessed with his own power and too foolish to remember that promises to fairies often don’t go the way you want, said yes, and the Fairy promised it would be done.

 

On Enjolras' 18th birthday, his parents threw him a party. It was smaller than the usual 18th party for a Prince, because Enjolras would not see that amount of money wasted on him, but there was still music and dancing long into the night. Until a little after midnight when the Fairy of the Forest came down from the rafters, and a hush fell over the ballroom.

Fairies were common visitors to court, drawn as they are to rooms filled with merriment, so Enjolras' father saw no harm in welcoming the Fairy. He bade them come forward, and Enjolras stepped down from the dais to meet them. The Fairy leaned in close.  


"Such a pretty prince. And so brave, and so intelligent. You could have been so wonderful. A pity."

The air in the room seemed to drop in temperature while he spoke, and Enjolras dropped to his knees. The guards tried to run forward to take the Fairy down, but they were repelled by an invisible force. The Fairy smiled and looked down at the Prince at their feet.

"Sleep, my child."

Enjolras grew drowsy, and the Fairy's smile grew wider.

"Sleep and do not wake."

When Enjolras was laid out fully on the ground, the Fairy turned to the throne and Enjolras' parents' hearts grew heavy.

"A chance, as always, to break the spell. But if one hundred full moons pass before his true love wakes him, then nothing ever will."

And in a flash of light, the Fairy was gone.

 

Enjolras' parents were devastated by the curse, and more so by their certainty that it could not be broken. They remembered, as the Fairy knew they would, the day their smart and serious child had declared he would never love another like he loved his country. If he was trapped in an enchanted sleep, there could be no escape. They feared the worst — that their son would never wake, that someone who desired a crown might take this opportunity to kill him in his sleep and rob the Kingdom of its only successor to the crown.

So with a heavy heart they locked Enjolras' sleeping form in a tower made of stone, hidden in the woods, with a single door. Four guards were sent to watch over the cottage, picked for their courage and their loyalty. But they were not the only ones to watch over the Prince, and the fairy of the forest was not the only one to take an interest.

 

High in the rafters above where the Prince slept, three fairies kept watch over his sleeping body and squabbled as fairies are known to do. One wore a necklace of polished glass, one a bracelet of worn-smooth wood and copper, and one a crown of fresh-cut flowers. The three argued well into the night about what they should do, what they could do, and what risk it was worth. Finally, as the first full moon of the curse hit its apex, they agreed. The Glass Fairy crept down and breathed life into the Prince, then the Copper Fairy took their turn, and finally the Flower Fairy too. That done, the three fairies collapsed on the Prince's bed and waited to see if their plan had been a success.

Enjolras blinked three times and opened his eyes. He jerked on the bed and sat up, his hands shaking. The last thing he could remember was falling to his feet with the Fairy’s quiet laughter ringing in his ears.

He looked around the room, desperate for an answer, and his eyes fell on the three figures at the end of the bed.

"Is the curse broken? Am I saved?"

The Glass Fairy took a step forward and smiled sadly. "We have not the power to break the curse; the magic is not ours to end. But we bought you time as best we could."

"Every month, from when the full moon hits its height in the sky until it breaks the horizon again, you can wake," continued the Copper Fairy.

“And go wherever you may please, so long as you are back safe in your bed by the time the moon is gone,” finished the Flower Fairy, as the three of the stood by his bedside.

Enjolras looked to the single window high on the wall, and felt tears prick at the corner of his eyes.

"Can I see my parents?" he asked.

The Glass Fairy looked sad. "You can tell no one of the truth, lest the Fairy of the Forest learn what we have done and take their revenge on us for resisting them.."

Enjolras looked to the window again, where the full moon was already starting its descent, and let himself cry.

 

Several years passed.

Filled with grief, Enjolras' parents ordered every portrait of his son destroyed so they would no longer have to look at his smiling young face and be reminded of the curse. The kingdom settled into its period of mourning, and in the woods, no one noticed when a young man ran through the trees during the full moon. Outside the stone cottage, the four guards stood watch over the prince's resting place, and none of them suspected that anything but a constantly sleeping body was within.

And then one day, a Stranger arrived in the city.

 

Grantaire was a painter who travelled between cities and kingdoms because he had yet to feel at home in any one place. He traded art and carvings for a dram of wine or a crust of bread and slept most nights under the stars. When he came to the city he was shocked, because he had never been to a place where the air was filled with so much sadness.

He could not stay within the city walls for long, and retreated into the countryside hoping to find a farmer or a shepherd who was in need of something he could offer. But the countryside was short before the trees began, and he was out of luck. 

Night was falling, and right where the woods became the forest, Grantaire happened upon the most beautiful man he had ever seen.

He took a step forward, but he stepped on a branch that cracked loudly in the night air, and the man — barely more than a boy — fled without even looking back.

Grantaire sighed and slumped against the nearest tree. He knew himself, and he knew that he could not leave the forest until he had seen that man again.

Grantaire found a tiny room just by the city wall, and ventured out every night to retrace his steps to that same spot in hopes of seeing the man again. Two weeks passed and still nothing, and Grantaire was driven to distraction by the fear that he had lost his way in the trees and would never find him again. Two more weeks passed, and he gave up. He could not linger in this sad city any longer, so he packed his bags and set off again. 

The way through the forest was dark and winding, and when he finally arrived in a clearing he decided not to try and get further that night. But he couldn't sleep, so instead he took out his box of paints and tried to capture the beauty of the full moon as it hung fat in the sky.

He had barely finished the outline when he heard a branch crack behind him and his head jerked around to see who was there.

 

A man was standing in the shadows; he was half hidden by a tree, but there was no mistaking him. It was the same man.

He pulled back into the shadows, clearly about to flee, and Grantaire yelled out, "WAIT."

The man froze, but didn't move. In the darkness, Grantaire could see fear in his face, and put his hands up to show he was not armed.

"I'm not here to hurt you, I promise. I just wanted to see you again."

The man didn't move. Grantaire carefully put down his paints and stood, moving to the center of the clearing so he could see all of him. "I saw you, last month, and I just wanted to see you again, I promise. There are not many who spend their time away from the city's safety."

The man stepped out of the tree's shadow, and took a seat at the base of the farthest tree from Grantaire. Grantaire sat down where he was and smiled.

The man sighed, and ran a hand through his long blond hair. "I don't see many people in the forest at night."

Grantaire laughed. "I suppose most people are more sensible than I am."

The man didn't smile back. Grantaire frowned.

"I didn't mean to imply you weren't sensible. I mean, you could have a house deep in the woods, or some other explanation for why you're out here, I'm not trying to compare the two of us, I just wanted to say that..." He sighed. "I'm Grantaire."

"I'm—" the man shut his mouth. "I don't really have a name."

Grantaire raised an eyebrow. "Everybody has a name."

The man scowled. "I don't have much need for names out here."

"What am I to call you, then?"

"Why do you need to call me anything?"

Grantaire bit back the first comment that sprung to mind and smiled "Because how am I to talk to you if I have nothing to call you?"

The man moved to stand up. "We shouldn't be talking, it's—"

"Wait." Grantaire held up a hand to halt him, "I won't ask your name if you don't want to give it to me. I can name you in my thoughts easily enough."

The man didn't say anything, but he sat back down again. Grantaire smiled. 

"What brings you to the forest?"

"I live here."

"Is it lonely?"

The man drew his arms around himself, even though the summer air was still warm.

"Yes."

"I'm sorry."

The man looked down at his hands. "I have three friends, but they cannot always be here. Without them, it is only me."

Grantaire longed to reach out and take his hand, but he feared that any movement on his part would cause the man to run.

"We do not need to talk about that if you would prefer not."

The man smiled slightly. "What else is there to talk about?"

"We can talk about anything you wish."

The man smiled again, fiddling with the ends of his hair. "I would enjoy that."

They passed two hours in gentle conversation, Grantaire speaking far more than the other man, but not upset by that. Soon the moon hung low in the sky, and Grantaire was starting to feel a day's walking catch up on him. Suddenly the man jumped to his feet, worry writ plain across his face.

"I must go."

Grantaire stood up too. "Can I see you again tomorrow?"

The man bit his lip. "I will not be out tomorrow."

"The next day then?"

"Or then."

"Then when?" Grantaire implored. "I must see you again."

"I cannot return until the next full moon."

Grantaire's heart sank, but he was determined still. "I will be here," he promised.

The man laughed. "I cannot expect you to wait a month to see me again."

Grantaire smiled. "I waited a month to see you this time, what is another to see you again?"

The man looked like he wanted to argue, but the moon was moving fast against the sky and he clearly needed to leave.

"Fine. Next moon, back here. I won't be disappointed if you do not come."

Grantaire smiled back at him. "Do not doubt my word on this, I will be here as soon as the sun sets."

And with that, the man was gone.

 

Enjolras ran through the woods as fast as he could, desperate to beat the sunrise. When he arrived at the cottage, he scrambled up the vines until the three Fairies reached out and pulled him into the room. They shoved him towards the bed as fast as they could, unlacing his shoes and pulling leaves out of his hair. 

The Glass and Wood Fairies hovered by the window, clutching the drapes and scanning the treeline for the sign of any trouble. In the bed, the Flower Fairy brushed Enjolras’s hair back from his forehead and whispered “I hope it was worth it,” in his ear as he drifted back to sleep.

 

Grantaire sighed and laid back in the clearing to stare at the sky. He knew it was foolish to stay, to trap himself in this sad town on the edge of the forest, but he couldn't leave now.

* * * * *

Two weeks later, Grantaire was wandering through the forest again, and found a stone house with one window and three men sitting around a fire outside. The moment he stepped out of the trees' shadows and they saw him, all the men stood, facing him with clear tension writ large across their bodies.

Grantaire held his hands up, his shoulders loose, and tried to make himself seem as non-threatening as possible. The shortest of the men relaxed, but the other two still looked tense, and Grantaire wondered if this was a situation that led to him fleeing the woods and never seeing the mysterious man, his Apollo, again.

His confusion must have been reassuring, because eventually the two tallest men let themselves relax and sit back down beside their fire. They were still looking at him carefully, shaping him up to see if they could take him down, and Grantaire had no illusions that they could not beat him easily, should they choose to.

"What do you need?" the largest man asked.

Grantaire sighed. What he needed was to find Apollo again, but for whatever reason he still had twelve more days to wait, and in the meantime he found himself desperate to avoid the city and its people.

"I need the sun on my face and a place to sit that has no walls around it. I need wine, but I have no coin and so the sun shall have to do for now."

The smallest of the men laughed. "We have no wine here, but the sun is bright though the air is crisp, and you may sit here if you please."

The two other men held a voiceless exchange before turning to face him.

"But mind yourself, my oversized friend here would gladly kill you where you stood if you prove to be a danger," said the third man.

Grantaire glanced at the tallest of the men, who did indeed look like he could kill Grantaire with little trouble if he took the notion to. He bowed deeply to the three men.

"I thank you."

He settled himself near the fire. The sun was high and the sky was clear and blue, but the leaves were already starting to fall from the trees and the air was cool against his skin. When he looked up, the three men were still looking at him, consideration on their faces.

He sighed and looked into the fire. "I can see the questions on your face. You may as well let them out."

"What brings you to the forest?"

"I could not stand the air in the city today."

"What brings you to the city?"

"I was wandering through the kingdom and did not know that I was lost until I found what I did not know I was looking for. And now I cannot leave without them, and they cannot leave with me, so I am at an impasse."

The tallest of the men tilted his head and held out his hand.

"Bahorel."

He took it. "Grantaire."

The other two men — Feuilly and the smaller Joly — introduced themselves and shook his hands, and the small group fell back into silence. The three men were clearly busy with something, and it wasn't long before Feuilly absented himself to the tent Grantaire could see barely a few feet away.

Bahorel and Joly bantered as they fixed weapons and prepared some sort of stew on a pot over the fire. Grantaire had brought his sketchbook, and he busied himself with drawing the fire and the trees and tall stone tower nearby.

When the stew was ready Bahorel offered him some, and ignored him when he tried to say he couldn't take it. The food was warm and hearty, and the conversation between Grantaire and the two men flowed easily as the night began to settle in around them. 

Grantaire was about to reluctantly make his excuses to leave the circle and head back to his tiny room in the city when Joly stood and stretched. He nodded goodbye to Grantaire and clasped Bahorel's shoulder, and walked quickly away from the fire with his sword at his side.

It wasn’t long before another man emerged from the shadows and settled himself in Joly's empty seat. He looked Grantaire up and down before offering his hand.

"Bossuet. And as Bahorel hasn't killed you yet, I assume that you mean no harm."

Grantaire swallowed tightly at the easy threat and returned the handshake.

"Grantaire. And I mean no harm, nor do I have any ability to act upon it if I did."

Bossuet smiled. "And that is almost as good."

He took his portion of stew from the pot and carefully covered it over again. The fire was crackling and throwing shadows across all their faces when Grantaire finally asked the question he’d been sitting on since he arrived.

He gestured to the tower. "What is it you're guarding?" 

The two men exchanged a look.

"You really aren't from here, are you?"

Grantaire shrugged and didn't move his eyes from Bahorel's face.

There was another moment of silent debate between Bahorel and Bossuet, which ended with Bossuet shrugging and settling deeper in his seat.

Bahorel poked the fire and looked at Grantaire. "If you tell anyone where the tower is, I will kill you."

Grantaire swallowed again, and nodded. Bahorel seemed to accept it and settled back in his own seat.

"The Kingdom used to have a Prince. He was young and passionate and the most beautiful boy in the Kingdom. But he spoke of change and the future and someone grew scared, and nearly five years ago the Fairy of the Forest put him in a magical sleep and he's been in the tower ever since."

"Will he ever wake up?"

Bossuet shook his head sadly. "The King and Queen have given up hope. There are fewer than three years left for true love's kiss to wake him. The Prince always said his love was only for the land and the people, and the soil cannot kiss him awake."

Grantaire drew his knees up closer to himself and stared into the fire. This must be why the Kingdom suffered under a cloak of grief, the land taking on the sadness of its King and reflecting it back.

He needed to escape. He had been heading south when he had arrived here, he could have been on the coast by now, with all that region’s strange fruits and sunshine instead of this sad, cold forest. But he could not leave without seeing Apollo again, so he was trapped.

* * * * *

True to his word, twelve days later Grantaire was back in the clearing as the sun began to set.

There was no sign of Apollo. The sun disappeared behind the horizon and the clearing was thrown into darkness, and still no Apollo. Grantaire leaned heavily against a tree and sank to the ground, praying Apollo had been delayed and that he was not to be left alone all night, to have wasted his last month waiting for someone who wasn't waiting for him.

Grantaire sat at the bottom of the tree and forced himself not to sleep. He dug his nails into his palms every time his eyes drifted shut, the sharp pain waking him, and he waited.

It was hours later, the moon high in the sky and casting the clearing in its silver glow, that he finally heard the snap of a branch and sprang to his feet.

"Is that you?"

Across the clearing, Apollo emerged from the shadows, and Grantaire couldn't stop the smile spreading across his face.

"I thought you weren't coming."

"I didn't think you'd wait for me."

"Don't be like that, Apollo. I told you I'd wait more than a month to see you again."

Apollo wrinkled his nose. "That's not my name."

Grantaire smiled again. "It's not, but you still haven't told me what is, so until then it will have to suffice."

Apollo sighed and collapsed to the ground a few feet away. He glanced over at Grantaire and swept some of the hair out of his eyes.

"I can't believe you came."

Grantaire sighed and shuffled a little closer to Apollo, careful not to get so close as to accidentally touch him and scare him away. 

"You must not know very many good people if you don't think people will be where they say they will."

Apollo trailed his fingers through the grass. "It's... complicated."

"I'm sure it is. But you still deserve the kinds of friends you can trust."

"I have three friends. They take care of me and protect me, but they live where I live and are always there when I wake up. I've never had to wonder if they won't be. But I have... I had a family, and they have never even tried to see me, even while I slept. They have their reasons, I know, but..."

"Hey." Grantaire leaned over to tap him lightly on the knee. "Whatever their reasons, you’re allowed to be sad."

"They're very good reasons."

"Even so."

There was a moment of silence, broken only by the hooting of some nearby owls. Grantaire pulled out his sketchbook and asked Apollo if he could draw him.

Apollo bit his lip and was quiet for a long moment. "You mustn't show my face to anyone you meet, for any reason."

"What's wrong with showi–"

"Promise me." Apollo's voice was harsher than Grantaire had ever heard before. 

"I promise."

Apollo sat stiffly for the first few minutes, but he soon relaxed when Grantaire asked him about his friends. He smiled gently while telling him of the three people who lived with him, and how they filled his home with flowers and trinkets and books that Apollo had never seen before, nor seen arrive.

Soon the moon was hanging low and heavy in the sky, and Apollo stood up to brush the dirt off his pants.

"Can I see you again tomorrow?"

Apollo smiled sadly. "I won't be here tomorrow."

"The next day then." Grantaire asked, even though he knew what was coming.

"Or the next day."

"Next full moon then, yes."

"Yes."

"And do not even ask if I mind the wait, I would wait a year or more."

Apollo flashed a tiny smile and turned towards the trees.

"Oh, and Apollo? It's four."

He turned back, confusion on his face. "Four what?"

"You have four friends now."

And Grantaire would trade everything he'd ever painted for a chance to capture that smile on canvas.

* * * * *

Grantaire found work around the city to busy himself while he waits. He touched up shop signs, worked in a tavern, and did numerous other tiny tasks. He could afford a little wine more often than he could before, and his days were not empty, and he supposed that was all he could expect.

Still, he found himself drawn to the forest, and the men who guarded the sleeping prince. They were his opposite in every way he could think — men with so strong a sense of duty that they had put their own lives on hold to fulfil it — but he found in them an unexpected sense of kinship.

He was sitting by their fire one night a few days before the next full moon when Feuilly saw his drawing of the fire and commented on it.

"That's good."

"This?" Grantaire glanced down at the scrap of paper and shrugged. "But a sketch, nothing more."

"Do you ever draw people?" asked Joly.

He shrugged again. He hadn't been drawing 'people' lately, he'd been drawing a person, and a person whose pictures he'd promised to keep secret..

"I draw a lot of things. And paint a lot of things. When I have money, which isn't often. Paint is expensive. Drawing I can manage on scraps of whatever comes to hand." 

"Only you need money, right?" Bossuet asked.

"There might be some going. For painting," Joly added.

Grantaire had grown used to their talking over and under each other, and didn't even blink at the split sentence.

"I already get a bit of money from painting. I fixed the sign above the tavern, and half the shutters on the street beside the main square."

"This would be a lot of money."

"Well, I always pay close attention when the subject of a lot of money comes up."

Often he was paying attention to know which direction to run, as large sums of money often promise equally large trouble, but it was still roughly the truth.

"I was in the city last week," Feuilly explained, "and I heard some people talking about the palace."

Grantaire had long ago given up on trying to discern the complicated schedule the four men lived on, but he knew that enough time to make a trip to the city was rare, and there were few places Feuilly would spend that precious time on other then the tavern. When he said he heard people talking about the palace, that probably meant he was in the palace, listening in on the palace staff's gossip.

"When the Prince was cursed, the Queen was filled with grief. She ordered every portrait of him destroyed, as well as every portrait of the King and Queen in younger days, because she could not bear the happiness on their faces. But years have passed, and the King thinks the time has come to have a royal portrait again. He is putting out a call to any artist in the Kingdom who thinks they can do it to come to the palace to prove their worth."

Grantaire blinked, and looked down at the flames on the scrap of paper in his hand.

"I don't know if I have the time."

Joly smiled fondly. "Grantaire, you have nothing but time."

* * * * *

Grantaire had still not gone to the palace by the time of the next full moon. There was still time; the King would continue seeing artists for thirteen more days, but even so Grantaire was still not decided. The money would be welcome, as would the chance to stretch himself and paint the way he always wanted to when he carefully fixed the lettering on a local sign, but if he could feel the city's sadness from his bedroom by the wall, then he could not imagine how strong it would feel if he were to step inside the palace walls.

Instead, he had come to the clearing again, with whatever paper he could find, and hoped that Apollo would allow himself to be drawn again. 

He was expecting a wait this time, and brought some wine and bread to occupy himself with as he sat on the grass and listened to the sound of the forest around him. There were owls hooting and squirrels climbing and the sound of leaves rustling, and, every once in a while, what almost sounded like the tinkling of tiny bells.

The moon was high in the sky and Grantaire was warm and relaxed from wine by the time Apollo appeared. He looked a little different tonight, his long hair held back in a braid that trailed down his back, though his clothes were the same as they always were. 

He smiled when he saw Grantaire, and stepped into the clearing to take his usual spot on the grass a few feet from Grantaire's tree. Tonight, for some reason, it felt unbearably far away.

Grantaire rolled his bottle away and leaned forward, holding out a hand towards Apollo.

"Surely we are past this skittishness by now? Come closer, so I may see your eyes in all their glory."

Apollo frowned. "There is no glory in my eyes."

"I beg to differ." Grantaire pushed himself onto his knees, shuffling a few inches closer. "If your eyes have even a tenth of the glory of your hands, of your hair, your chin, then they have glory indeed."

Apollo pushed himself a little further back into the clearing. "You've been drinking."

Grantaire laughed and dropped himself back to slouch against the tree again. "I have at that, Apollo. But do not worry, you are safe, I will not come too close.. I would not try to press my attentions on someone who did not desire them."

"It's not..." Apollo sighed and worried the end of his braid. "Why do you do it?"

Grantaire shrugged. "Why does anyone?"

Apollo's eyes showed no flash of understanding, and his braid was steadily unravelling from his fingers' nervous attention.

"Do you not take wine?"

"I never have, no," Apollo said. "My friends do sometimes, of a sort. But they do so in merriment, and always together, so their reasons must be different."

"Do you not find me merry?" Grantaire asked, trying for a open smile he knew he did not manage.

"Not at this moment, no."

Grantaire sighed again and tried to sit up a little straighter. "It fills the time."

"That is a terrible reason to do anything."

"It is as good a reason as any I have found. How else to spend my days? I sleep, I wake, I draw or paint a little and throw troublemakers out of the tavern, and I wait for the next full moon. There are so many hours in the day and only so many of them can be filled by attempting to recapture your face from memory."

Apollo flinched. "I do not want you to wait for me if it pushes you towards drinking."

"Nothing could push me towards drinking. At best, waiting for you holds my hand and gently leads me to drinking. I have no objections to being led."

"There is no difference."

"There are other ways to solve the issue. If you did not make me wait to see you, then perhaps I would be gently led to wine less often."

Apollo flinched again and looked away, and Grantaire instantly knew he had said the wrong thing.

"That was not well said. You know I wait with no ill feeling. I would wait even if it were between blue moons and not full ones."

"Yes, wait and drink and waste your life waiting for change that will never come," Apollo snapped.

"My reasons are my own and your feelings on my failings will not change them."

Apollo stood suddenly and brushed the dirt from his pants. Grantaire looked to the horizon but the moon was still hanging in the sky, nowhere near dipping below the trees.

"Apollo—"

"I have to go."

Grantaire meant to call out that he would still be waiting, no matter Apollo's concerns, but the man was gone before he could speak.

Grantaire sank to the ground by his tree, grasping his bottle and throwing it into the darkness before pounding his firsts in the dirt in furstration. What a fool he was, to wait so long to see his Apollo and waste it all on ten minutes and a silly argument. He would have to be better next time.

If there was to be a next time.

* * * * *

Grantaire drowned the remaining night in wine and very nearly missed an appointment to fix the carpenter's sign. He supposed he was lucky that what work he found himself with was so repetitive he could still complete it when his head was spinning from an ill-spent night. There were benefits to drudgery after all. It started to rain before he was done; as it was his own fault the work had gone slowly he promised to touch it up the following day at no additional cost, and headed back towards the tavern. 

The day was still young and the bottles behind the bar were inviting, but he had wasted enough coin on wine already, and he could not help but see Apollo's unforgiving face every time his gaze turned towards the bar.

Instead, he took a mug of tea from the barmaid and settled himself at a table that left him with a full view of the room. Madame Houcheloup gave him free rooms and the occasional dinner if he protected her business from the usual troublemakers that pass through any city of this size, and he was alone in finding it amusing that he now finds himself on this side of the tavern, throwing people out instead of himself being on the street outside.

There was a heaviness in his chest that he could not attribute to last night's excess, and similarly did not feel like a sickness setting in. It reminded him of being a boy, when the leaves would begin to turn brown and his father would trade their few sheep at the next town over.

At the table beside him, two men he recognised as a blacksmith and a grocer were talking in low voices. He would not normally pay attention to such hushed conversations, but their mention of the words 'the sleeping Prince' piqued his interest and he tried to lean himself back in his chair to catch the rest of what they said.

"It has already been five years," said the blacksmith.

"Time is running out."

"And where will we be then?" demanded the blacksmith. "The King and Queen grow frail in their grief, how much more can they take of this?"

"Our kingdom will be in danger," agreed the grocer. "Without an heir there is nothing to stop armies encroaching, and then we are all at risk."

"We need someone to take over, or there will be bloodshed when the kingdoms to either side decide we are theirs for the taking."

"The King and Queen will never name a successor so long as they have hope, no matter how small, that their son will wake," said the grocer. "We can only hope they survive long enough to do it after."

"There is less time left every day. They best be quick about it, or we are all at risk."

Grantaire set all four chair legs back on the floor as their conversation moved on to more local gossip. He could only imagine how the King and Queen must feel, their only child cursed to never wake, and their people chomping at the bit for them to abandon his memory and name an heir for their own protection. He understood their need to feel safe, but their insistence seemed ill-placed. Sure the King would not leave naming an heir so late as to place the city in true danger? The King and Queen could not be so old as to be at risk of dying in the next short while, and he could not begrudge them their need to cling to whatever hope remained that their son might one day wake up.

He waited weeks for a single night in the company of a man who would not even tell him his name; he could not judge another for clinging to tiny scraps of hope.

* * * * *

The next time Grantaire walked out to the tower in the woods, he was not the only stranger there. 

There was a woman with rust-red hair curled by the fire, her head resting in Joly's lap as he stroked her back and shot a glare at Grantaire to be silent in his approach.

He did not ask her story, because he was already familiar with the look on Joly's face that said there was no information forthcoming. Instead, he sat himself in his usual spot and took out his papers and charcoal. The woman was truly beautiful, but he had no doubt her face was as forbidden to draw as any of the guardsmen, so instead he drew Joly's hand upon her shoulder, the fold of her garments as they pooled on the grass around her feet, and as always, the flickering fire as the embers burned and kept them warm.

The winter was approaching, and with it the end of local tradesmen updating their shopfronts and Grantaire's only source of reliable income. He did not know how the guards survived the winter, cold and wet as it often was. He assumed their fire moved into a tent, and wondered if he will still be welcome to join them there, or if there would be too many secrets held within for him to enter.

He confessed his fears — about the money, at least, not their arrangements — and Feuilly smiled sadly.

"You can always move south."

Grantaire shook his head. "I used to move on with the wind and twice as fast, but I am anchored here. I will just have to rely even more on Madame Houcheloup's kindness, unlikely as that might prove to be."

"There is still the job at the palace."

Grantaire sighed. "The time is nearly come for them to choose, and I fear that all those who have offered their services will be of higher skill than me. There is no point applying only to be judged inferior, I can do that to myself well enough."

Bossuet reached over to smack Grantaire lightly on the back of the head. 

"Quit your whining. If you do not wish to apply because you do not want the job, that is one thing, but do not act as if your work is not good enough to secure you at least a chance. If the King had made his decision already he would have just asked the artist in question to begin. He wishes to see every artist who wants to try their hand, and so you will go and you will smile and you will not undercut yourself with every word."

Grantaire shoved him back, but half-heartedly. "You are a thorn in my side as always."

"If that is what it takes to stop you ruining yourself then that is what I will remain."

"Fine, fine." Grantaire sighed. "I will go to the palace with my scraps of drawings of fire and hands and tell the king I am the one to paint what will be the only royal portrait in the kingdom."

"Good." Bossuet smiled. "When the world does not end, we will all be here to say we told you so."

* * * * *

Inside, the palace felt suffocating, and Grantaire could not tell why. The heaviness in his chest had grown familiar in recent weeks, but he found it increased here and wondered how anyone else was bearing it.

Around him, the other artists were gathered and occasionally exchanging a few words with each other. Many had elaborately bound portfolios that clearly contained many large works, and he had nothing but his box of small pages, many with ragged edges that betrayed their origins as the end pieces of larger papers. All his fine paper had gone on pictures of his Apollo, and as he was sworn to never share them, he has had to make do with what he is left with.

Similarly, he had no drawings of the guardsmen or their red-haired guest that could be shared, so he had instead filled the last few days with attempting to capture the tavern's many guests on the page, even though none sit still and the light inside is dark. He could not convince Floreal to stay still for more than five minutes as her work kept her too busy serving guests, but he thought he had as good a likeness of her as could be captured in that time, and wondered if it would do.

He was not confident. He was never confident, not least in these matters, and the finely dressed men surrounding him did not help with that. His clothes were tattered and he had no money for fine paper, and while he knew he was more skilled than many, he was equally sure that he was less skilled than many more.

So he watched the line of men in front of him as they entered the private interviews, and kept his box carefully on his knees, and waited.

When it was finally his turn, he did his best to brush the wrinkles out of his shirt and loosened his cravat as far as he dared, trying to combat the suffocating feeling he could not escape.

The King and Queen were nowhere to be seen, which was to be expected. Instead, two men were waiting at the table, and asked his name before gesturing him to sit down.

They took his box of drawings and slowly opened it, spreading all the scraps across the table and inspecting each one. He thought he could detect an eyebrow raised in disapproval at their size and obvious origins, but nothing was said, and he sat in silence as they went through them all.

They stopped for a moment on a sketch of Floreal. Not the one she'd reluctantly paused her work to briefly pose for, but another that he'd drawn quickly while waiting for his dinner one night last week. It was a good likeness, he thought. He'd captured her smiling eyes, even if her nose was not quite right and her lips were barely sketched in because his food had arrived before he could finish and she had moved by the time he was done.

Finally, the men put the paper aside and began to question him, asking about his training (which was informal) and his experience (which was mixed) and if he truly felt like he could paint to the standard which they would require (which he feared he did not, but remembered Bossuet's words and claimed he did).

At the end, they selected a few of the pages to take with them, promising they would be returned, and asked him where he could be found if they need to contact him. He gave them the name of the tavern and shook their hands, and finally emerged from the palace feeling worn out. He pulled his cravat off and shoved it in his pocket, opening the neck of his shirt with shaking fingers, and breathed as deeply as he could. 

Floreal was waiting with a glass of wine when he was back at the tavern.

"No charge on this one," she smiled. "But there will be for the second."

He raised his glass to her and resisted the urge to down it in one go. He still did not know how much money he would have next week, so he had to learn to pace himself.

The day was still young enough that the tavern was not full yet, so Floreal was not too busy to stay and speak, as she wiped the bartop and arranged her bottles and glasses to her liking.

The mood in the tavern had been uneasy as of late, so much so that Grantaire had noticed, even though he was still new to this region. There were rumblings afoot, and he did not know enough about them to know if he should be worried or not. That night, a table full of tradesmen in the back corner looked to be testy, and he hoped that his services would not be called on to quell a fight. He still felt tired from his afternoon at the palace.

Floreal had kept one eye on the table since they arrived, even as she smiled and greeted any newcomer to the bar.

When there was a lull, he turned to her and tilted his head towards the table.

"What is that about?"

Floreal looked at him for a long moment, clearly contemplating how much she wished to share. He was still a stranger, of a sort. He hadn't shared his reasons for staying in the city so long, so for all she knew, he might leave the next day. But she seemed to settle on trusting him, and leaned down to begin polishing some metalwork near his seat.

"How much do you know about the Prince?"

Grantaire swallowed. "That there are less than three years before the curse is complete, and no one knows who will rule the Kingdom in the future if it is not broken."

She nodded. "Well, there are many who feel the King should have already named an heir. And many who feel that if the Prince does not wake, then there should be no heir and the Kingdom should be given over to the people."

Grantaire raised an eyebrow. "And how would that work?"

Floreal shrugged. "No one can agree. The guilds think a council nominated by their members would be best. Those not in a guild disagree. Some feel everyone should have a say, some feel like that would lead to chaos. Many feel that the Prince would have wanted some form of democratic representation even if he were still awake, and so that is the only acceptable choice."

"If only the Prince were awake to tell us so himself."

Floreal smiled. "If the Prince were awake it would be worse, I feel. You were not here when he was still awake. His opinions on the matter were very clear, but so long as he was still able to take the throne many people paid them no heed. Now he is gone and can have no say, and now the people start to think that maybe his ideas were not so bad."

"The people do not wish to be ruled by a foreign king, whether he is appointed or conquering."

Floreal shrugged again. "The people do not know what they want, only that it is more important than what their neighbour wants. I fear chaos is the most likely outcome, whatever is decided."

"And the King? What has he said?"

She finished her polishing and grabbed some clean glasses from below the bar. "The King has said nothing, and will continue to say nothing until the curse is completed and he has no choice. And then, who knows?"

She left Grantaire with his wine and his thoughts.

* * * * *

At the next full moon, Grantaire waited in the clearing from sundown. Apollo was not there, but he did not let himself worry yet. Apollo usually arrived later in the night, so Grantaire waited for the moon to hit its peak and only then began to fret.

The moon had already started to descend when Grantaire folded his knees to his chest and buried his face. He did not know whether to laugh or cry, that he had finally taken the risk to secure enough money to stay in the city longer, and had already ruined any reason he had to stay. 

He should go back to his bed. There was no reason to wait there in the cold night air when Apollo had clearly already decided to abandon him. He should have known better than to think that these meetings would last, that Apollo would not find something else to occupy his time, and forget the lonely stranger whom he only saw for a few hours once a month.

But he could not let himself leave. For as long as the full moon was in the sky, he would wait for Apollo, and Grantaire had no doubt thathe would still be back next moon even if Apollo never arrived. He was unwilling to give up on the idea that maybe Apollo was detained against his wishes; maybe he had not abandoned him despite his boorish actions.

The moon was lowering, and there could not have been more than a couple of hours of night left when Grantaire heard a crash in the trees and Apollo came rushing to the clearing, gasping for breath as he fell to his knees in the grass.

Grantaire untangled his own limbs and jumped to his feet. He rushed over to attend Apollo but pulled up short, remembering not to touch him.

Apollo looked up to him and sighed with a smile. "You still came."

Grantaire could not help but smile back. "I said I would. I did not expect you to, though. But I am glad you did."

Apollo had regained his breath and sat down carefully in the grass. 

"I almost didn't," he confessed. "I was angry when I left last time, and determined not to come again. But when the moon rose tonight I felt it drawing me, and though I tried to ignore it I thought of you, and how I would feel if I waited so long to see someone and they did not show, so I came. I'm sorry I was not here earlier."

Grantaire felt warmth bubble in his chest, even as it battled with the knowledge that wherever Apollo spent the rest of his months, he clearly did not wait for Grantaire like Grantaire waited for him. 

"As I said, I am glad you came. I worried I may have driven you away, and I could not bear the thought."

Apollo ducked his head and smiled. "You need not worry. For as long as I am able to come here, I will."

Grantaire sighed happily and sank to the grass in front of him. He may have imagined it, but he thought that the gap between them was smaller than it had been before.

Apollo fidgeted with his hair again. "Tell me what you have been doing."

Grantaire wondered how much he could say. He could not speak about the Prince in the tower, or the guards, and did not want to talk about the palace and the prospect of painting the King and Queen as he was still sure it would not come to pass. Instead, he cast his mind back to his conversation with Floreal a couple of weeks ago, and to the growing rumblings within the city.

"There are politics afoot."

"Hmm?"

Grantaire had no idea how aware Apollo was of the situation in the city, and did not wish to waste time explaining it, so he attempted the quick version.

"The Prince sleeps a cursed sleep and is unlikely to wake. The King has yet to name a successor, still clinging to the hope that he will. The people do not wish to be ruled by a foreign king, and are contemplating ruling themselves, but none can agree on how to do that. So there are rumblings in the city and the villages, and no one knows what is to happen."

Apollo's eyes had snapped open at the start of his speech, and his fingers had stilled on his hair. "You mean they are speaking of democracy? Across the whole Kingdom?"

Grantaire shrugged. "Of a sort, at least. The guilds think they should rule, those not in guilds do not agree, and none can agree as to how to decide."

"Still, the King is young enough to rule for a while longer. By the time he is ready to step down, they will have a solution." 

Apollo looked thrilled at the thought.

"You have no sympathy for the Prince?"

"I have sympathy for anyone who's been cursed, but if this is what it takes to bring democracy to the Kingdom, perhaps it is for the best that he sleeps forever."

"You cannot mean that."

"I don't say anything I do not mean. We will not survive for long if we insist on clinging to the notion of divine rule. There can be no justice as long as kings rule the land, and if the Prince needs to sleep for that it come to pass, then that is how it must be."

Grantaire frowns. "I cannot believe you would be so callous. The world will never change, and even if they attempt democracy it will not last before a nearby kingdom stakes its claim. Then the Prince will sleep forever for nothing."

Apollo waved his hands. "The people will protect their home for themselves as well as for a king. Indeed, they will likely do it better for that.” 

"You cannot wish to sacrifice someone innocent for that chance."

"No one is innocent who perpetuates injustice. I would sacrifice a great deal to make the future a better place than the past."

Apollo was clearly growing agitated, his hands waving in all directions, and Grantaire did not wish to waste another night fighting. He waved his hands to cut Apollo off.

"Please, I do not wish to fight again. Let us speak of something else. Anything else."

Apollo stilled for a moment, before folding his hands in his lap.

"Alright."

There was silence for a moment, and Grantaire decided it would be on him to choose the new topic of conversation.

"What brought you to this clearing, that first night?"

Apollo bit his lip. "I live to the west. I had already explored as far as I could in the other directions before that night, so then I decided to explore the east. This is as far as I got before I found you."

"So this is as far east as you have been? You have not seen the ocean?"

Apollo's hands returned to his hair. "Not since I was a child, no. Even if I did not come to spend these nights here, the ocean is too far east for me to make it there and back on foot, not before the night is over."

Grantaire reached slowly to place his hand on Apollo's knee, watching the whole time to see if he wished to reject the contact. 

"Thank you for spending the time you have with me. I am grateful."

Apollo smiled back before glancing at the sky, where the moon was dangerously low.

"I must leave."

"I know."

"Next moon, I promise."

"Next moon."

* * * * *

Grantaire had only just thrown a burly man out of the tavern. Three o’clock in the afternoon was too early to have to quarrel with drunks, so he was recuperating with some soup when someone tapped him on the shoulder.

He closed his eyes and counted to three before turning around, not wanting to inflict his bad mood on a paying customer, especially not when he was relying on the good favour of the owner to keep him housed.

When he finally turned, he was surprised. The man who was interrupting his tiny dinner looked as out of place in the tavern as Grantaire had felt at the palace a few weeks ago, and clearly felt himself to be somewhere inhospitable.

Grantaire smiled at him and pushed the table's other chair out with his foot.

"Care to sit down?"

The man hid his grimace better than Grantaire had expected.

"No thank you. I am merely here to deliver a message, and that shall not take me long. I am told you are the painter, Grantaire?" 

"That is what they call me, yes." Some of them, anyway. Grantaire did not need to share the rest of the names he had earned with this stranger.

"I bring word from the palace. The Queen wishes to interview you on the subject of your painting. She bids you be there tomorrow after breakfast, and not to make plans for the afternoon. She may keep you some time."

He barely waited to see Grantaire acknowledge the invitation before hurrying out of the tavern and leaving a dumbstruck Grantaire alone with his soup.

He was still silent when Floreal flopped down on the other chair with her own soup, poking him with her foot when he didn't speak.

"Have you finally be banished from the Kingdom?"

"No, it is... I have been summoned to the palace. The Queen wishes to discuss painting with me."

Floreal dropped her spoon in her soup.

" _The_ Queen? _Our_ Queen?"

"I do not know of any other queen in these parts, so I can only assume so."

Floreal smiled widely. "But that is excellent news! This only makes it more likely that she is to choose you to paint the portrait, and do not pretend to me you do not wish to. It is plain to see you do."

"You are correct, for once. I think I do."

* * * * *

Grantaire was dressed in his finest outfit, carefully pressed with Floreal's assistance the night before, and still he felt out of place in the palace. Every surface looked like it had been polished to a high shine, as if they kept legions of servants around for that very purpose (as well they might), and he was reluctant to touch anything for fear his never-clean fingers would leave indelible marks on the gleaming furniture.

He kept his fingers folded into his cuffs as he followed the footmen through the hallways, losing track of where he was every time they turned a corner and he was passed from one footman to another. Finally the sixth footman knocked on a door and ushered him inside without seeming to wait for a response.

Grantaire turned to thank the man for showing him in, but he had already gone. He slowly turned back to face the room, and turned back to face the room, wondering if they had gone to notify the Queen, and how long it would be until she arrived, waiting for him to arrive as if he were in any way important.

But she was waiting. 

Grantaire took a step forward when she gestured, walking slowly so he could observe her before he was forced to talk.

He had heard stories about how the sleeping Prince was the most handsome man in the land, and even if he privately disputed that fact, if there was a family resemblance then he must be an attractive man indeed. The Queen was sitting at a small table, dressed in robin’s egg blue, with her hands folded neatly in her lap. Her hair looked to have been golden blonde in the past, now faded almost completely to a pale silver. She looked to be a little younger than his own mother, though he could hardly tell if that is true when their faces were so different. Grantaire's mother worked on a farm her whole life, and bore the marks of sun and wind with an attractiveness of her own, but the Queen's face was pale as moonlight. She had only a few wrinkles at the corners of her eyes betraying that at one time, even if it was years ago, she used to smile often.

Her cheekbones were sharp and her jaw perfectly formed, and Grantaire's fingers already itched to capture her face on paper. He flexed his hands again, still determined to hide the stains on his fingers, and took the seat she indicates.

Grantaire did not know what he was doing here. This was so clearly not his world that his skin prickled, and he still felt the uncomfortable weight of breathlessness on his chest. It had diminished these last few weeks, but today it was stronger than ever, and even distracted by the Queen's invitation, he could not help but notice it.

After he finally sat down, he expected the Queen to begin speaking, but instead she just regarded him carefully. Her eyes were bright and sharp yet somehow soft, and he did not feel uncomfortable under her gaze, though in the same circumstances with almost anyone else he would be desperate to escape.

Finally, she poured them both a cup of tea, gestured to the sugar for Grantaire's convenience, and broke the silence. 

"Can you tell me why you chose to be a painter?"

Grantaire carefully added two sugar cubes to his tea and stirred the cup, watching the grains dissolve before he answered.

"I might as well ask why you chose to be a queen."

Her eyes flashed for a moment, though Grantaire could not say for sure with what.

"It chose me." 

Grantaire shrugged and took a sip of tea. It was, unsurprisingly, the best cup of tea he had ever tasted.

"So did painting."

The Queen settled back in her chair a little, though her shoulders and back remained as straight as before.

"Tell me about something you've painted. Something important."

It took him a moment to think. He could tell her about the portrait of his grandmother he painted when he was 14, or the bowl of fruit that caught somebody's eye and led him to his sporadic and haphazard training, but he decided against it. Instead, he cast his mind back as far as he could, to the first time he could remember setting down his paintbrush and feeling like what he had created was complete. 

"My mother's birthday was six weeks after mine. I had two sisters, both born around the same time of year, and so when we were young there was never time or coin to spend on celebrating for her, not with the harvest and the young children. When I was nine, my sister suggested we try and make her gifts, so that she might feel more appreciated than I fear we led her to believe. My oldest sister made her gloves from scraps of fabric she had gathered through the summer, my other sister obtained the ingredients to make her a cake, and I painted a picture for her. I did not have many colours, but I did the best I could and made her a picture of the sunlight over the small herd of sheep."

The Queen was carefully looking at him. "Was it a good likeness?"

Grantaire smiled ruefully and shrugged. "I would imagine not. The hands of a nine-year-old are not the steadiest things. But she... she appreciated it. It hung on our wall."

There was a moment of silence again which Grantaire tried to ignore with the help of his tea.

"If you were to paint me, how would it look?"

"I daresay all those who have painted you before have been experienced in painting royalty."

The Queen inclined her head. "They have been the very best, and the best are often experienced in such matters."

Grantaire put his cup down carefully and spread his hands. "I have never painted a queen before, or a king, so I cannot tell you what my work will be like. But I can promise that if I paint you, it will be different than every painting of yourself you have ever seen."

The Queen set her cup down, carefully lining up the handle, the spoon, and the pattern on the saucer. Finally, she stood up, leaving Grantaire to look up sharply. She was far taller than he had anticipated.

"I must consult with my husband to find a time when he is available to sit. You may expect word in the next day or so. The footman will find you where he has before. If you require anything special to work, please inform the man who will see you out and he will ensure everything is arranged."

Grantaire was too surprised to speak for a moment. When he was finally ready to talk again, he hurried to his feet.

"Thank you for this, Your Majesty. I swear it will be my best work."

The Queen inclined her head again. "I look forward to working with you."

The she was gone in a swirl of robin's egg blue, and Grantaire found himself alone at the table. He stared at his hands for a few moments, trying to determine if they were shakier than they had been before the meeting, but his mind was too aswirl for him to know for sure. He did not know how long it was before the less than subtle cough behind him stirred him from his contemplation.

One of the many footmen had arrived to show him out. When asked what he would require to work, Grantaire could only say that they must use the room in the palace with the most and longest light, and that he trusted whatever supplies the palace would procure above any that he could name.

When he was finally ushered out of the courtyard and on the street of the town again, Grantaire looked up at the clock tower and found that not even an hour had passed since he arrived in the palace. He would have thought it would take longer than an hour to change one's life entirely.

But then he supposed his life had been changed in a moment before, so who was he to expect anything else?. 

He rolled the sleeves of his shirt to his elbows and ambled back to the tavern, wondering if Floreal would be as generous for good news as she was for bad. 

For a moment, he thought he felt the tightness in his chest loosen, just a touch.

* * * * *

When Grantaire was next at the tower, he found Bahorel, Bossuet, and Joly engaged in some sort of bizarre game involving stones, sticks, and a pile of grey feathers. He thought it best not to ask. The red-haired woman was still there, sitting between Joly and Bossuet and offering the latter suggestions while Bahorel insisted they were cheating. Grantaire still did not know her name, but he knew enough to know that questions would not be received well, and stayed silent on the matter.

He thought they might be too involved in their game to heed his arrival, but he supposed he should have had more faith in them than that, considering their posting. The second he breached the clearing Bossuet's eyes were on him.

"Has it been a successful week for you, my friend?" he asked, clapping his hands.

Grantaire rolled his eyes and took his usual patch of grass. "You look too happy to be surprised, so I imagine palace gossip has made its way out here. Though I still have few ideas how it gets this far." 

Bossuet and Joly shrugged as one, and Bahorel reached around the fire to punch Grantaire in the arm. 

"Congratulations."

He was not used to this kind of good favour about his fortunes, and tried as fast as he could to change the subject from their well wishes.

"I have a favour to ask."

"You should wait for Feuilly, then. He is the man for favours. I can scarce keep myself in my own good graces, let alone anyone else's."

Joly seemed to disagree with Bossuet's declaration, but once again Grantaire knew better than to comment.

Instead they passed the time discussing the other palace gossip, some of which was weeks old to Grantaire's ear and some of which was brand new, and studiously avoided the subject of Grantaire's new employment as they waited for Bahorel to relieve Feuilly.

When he finally arrived at the fire, Joly barely gave him a chance to catch his breath before announcing that Grantaire was in need of his assistance.

Feuilly sighed. "What do you need?"

"...A horse."

Feuilly pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose. "That may be beyond my reckoning."

"Not a whole horse! Or rather, not a permanent horse. I simply need to engage the services of a horse for a night later this month. A strong horse. A fast horse."

Feuilly sighed again. "That may be a slightly easier undertaking. What night do you need it for?"

Grantaire smiled. "The next full moon."

* * * * *

The first day Grantaire was to meet the King, he was terrified, and exhausted. He had been up half the night, keeping himself busy; when he was idle his mind had time to wander, and past experience suggested it might well wander in bad directions. So instead he cleaned, neatening up his jacket, trousers, and all the visible parts of his shirt, and carefully scrubbing under his fingernails in a desperate attempt to remove many months of paint and hard work.

It meant that he felt scrubbed raw when he arrived at the palace, but at least he was there, and presentable enough that his mother would not be embarrassed to know him.

Another relay of footmen led him through the palace. Grantaire was too nervous and their uniforms all too similar for him to recognise any of them from his previous visits, so he said nothing and silently followed them through the hallways until they finally reached a door.

The footman stepped aside to let Grantaire into the room by himself. 

"The Queen thought you might wish to familiarise yourself with the paints and brushes before you begin, so she and the King will join you in half an hour. Please ring if you have any needs."

He carefully shut the door, leaving Grantaire alone in the palace for the first time. He slowly approached the center of the room, which had clearly been set up for his use.

The first thing he saw was the canvas, and he tried not to be intimidated by its size. He knew that the King and Queen's first official portrait in six years was going to be a lavish affair, but until he saw the canvas he hadn't quite imagined _how_ lavish. It was certainly the largest canvas he'd ever worked on, perhaps even the largest he'd ever seen. The final picture would likely have the King and Queen full-bodied, and nearly three-quarters life sized, if not more. Grantaire put out a hand to clutch the edge of a chair and take a steadying breath. 

Paint was paint, after all. And whether he was painting a miniature of a neighbour's cat or a royal portrait that would eventually dominate an entire room, it was all merely a matter of degree. 

The second thing to catch his attention was the table by the canvas, laid out with paints in more colours and shades than Grantaire had ever seen before. He trailed his fingers over the tabletop, careful not to get paint on his fingertips just yet, and was distracted by a golden yellow paint almost the exact colour of Apollo's hair. He could surely mix a blue the colour of his eyes as well, if he had long enough to get it right, and Grantaire lost himself for a moment in imagining what it would be like to paint his Apollo properly instead of just sketching him on loose scraps of paper.

He would have to paint quickly, of course. Apollo wouldn't stay silent and still long enough otherwise, so it would perhaps be less of a detailed portrait than he was capable of, but he was sure he would be able to capture his essence. Possibly the only way to study his face without him moving would be to paint him while he slept, but Apollo would never let his guard down.

Grantaire was still lost in his thoughts, contemplating how much red he would need to capture the blush that stained Apollo's cheeks when he was pleased, when there was a quiet cough from the doorway. He spun quickly, worried about being thought impolite, and nearly tripped on the edge of the carpet. When he had avoided disaster and righted himself, he bowed deeply and for longer than was probably strictly necessary, before standing again and waiting for instruction. 

The Queen was as restrained and lovely as she was the first afternoon, this time in a pale grey dress that highlighted the blue in her eyes and the silver in her hair. Her hand rested lightly in the crook of her husband's elbow, his free hand laid gently across hers.

Grantaire had never seen the King before; he had not lived in town long enough to attend any of the public royal functions.. He was a tall man, with slim shoulders and a compact body, and was dressed neatly in navy blue. He was as attractive as his wife, with a strong jaw and thick hair, and Grantaire privately thought that even if they were not who they were, it would be his pleasure to paint them both. 

"I am at your service," he offered, his hands folded neatly behind his back.

"My wife has assured me of your talents," said the King. "Where would you have us sit for you?"

It took Grantaire barely a moment to arrange the room's chairs to his liking, bowing again as he gestured them to their seats. Instead of hiding behind the canvas, Grantaire forced himself to stand beside it, his hands kept clasped behind his back to hide their shaking.

"Do you have any requests?"

"None," the Queen said. "Just paint us as you wish."

Grantaire swallowed and finally moved behind the canvas, stepping up on to a small stool placed there so he could see over the top.

"I am afraid the beginning will move quite slowly."

He began to sketch with a slim piece of lead, starting at the edges of the frame. Normally, he would try and engage his models in conversation, in hopes the distraction would keep them from feeling too stiff, but he did not know if that would be appropriate in this case. Even if he was to talk to the King, he knew very little about this kingdom. What he did know was about the sleeping Prince and the rumblings of revolution, and neither subject seemed relaxing.. Finally, he had to step down off the stool to work on the lower edges of the canvas. Once he was out of their eyeline he found he could relax himself, and he asked the Queen if the city had any particular winter festivities in the coming months. There was a wistfulness in her voice as she described the river icing over and the bonfires along the shoreline, but her eyes were still bright and clear so he hoped he had not overstepped again.

He lost track of time while he sketched, and could not say if it had been an hour or five by the time a footman appeared and the King and Queen departed. He was left alone for a few moments to collect himself, and his eyes strayed back to the large collection of paints. He had not had a chance to use them yet, and his fingers itched to add pigment to the canvas, even if it was far too soon to do so.

"Soon," he reassured himself. "Soon."

* * * * *

Grantaire was not the most accomplished horseman. He had avoided riding as much as he could because for the most part, he and animals did not get along. He was fairly sure he could manage a light walk from the stone tower to the clearing where he met Apollo, but he hadn't been expecting a horse quite as large as the one Feuilly led over when Grantaire arrived just before nightfall.

That wasn't the only thing he noticed about the horse.

"Where's the saddle?"

Feuilly looked up at the horse. "You never said you needed to borrow a saddle."

Grantaire swallowed and looked into the horse's eyes. He patted his nose to say hello, but the horse didn't seem to pay him any mind.

"He's pretty gentle," Feuilly assured him. "Just point him in the direction you want to go and he'll get you there."

It took Grantaire five minutes and Bahorel's assistance to get on the horse's back. He just about managed to convince it to face towards the clearing on his own.

"Thank you." He smiled at Feuilly. "For the horse, and for not asking questions."

Feuilly nodded. "Don't think that's going to last you too many more favours though."

Grantaire nodded back. The only questions he was reluctant to answer had to do with Apollo in some way, and if they ever chose to press him on that subject he could decide then if it was more important to keep his secret or to never see Apollo again.

It took him a little longer to get to the clearing then usual — the horse wanted to take its time and Grantaire was in no position to tell it to do otherwise. When he finally arrived, Apollo was already waiting, his sleeves pulled over his hands and the tail end of his ragged braid in his mouth.

He spat it out when he saw Grantaire approach. 

"...Where did you get a horse?"

Grantaire shrugged. "I know many people."

Apollo took a step forward and ran his hand gently down the horse's neck. 

"I suppose then the question is, why do you have a horse?"

Grantaire blushed and pulled at the back of his collar. "Last month, you mentioned this was as far as you'd come to this side of the Kingdom, and I thought... There's no way we could make it to the cliffs on foot, but with a horse..."

He trailed off, too afraid to make it explicit, to offer some kind of change to their little routine. But when he looked to Apollo's face to judge his reaction, the other man was smiling.

"I think I would like that."

"Excellent!" Back on familiar footing, Grantaire slid backward as smoothly as he could manage. "Then your steed awaits."

Apollo's climb to the horse's back was far swifter and more elegant than Grantaire's had been. He stroked a strong hand down the horse's mane and turned to glance over his shoulder.

"You must be a far more accomplished horseman then I had thought, if you had no trouble riding without any tack."

Grantaire couldn't help but laugh. "You give me too much credit, Apollo. The horse did all the work himself, I merely rode his coat-tails to find you here.”

"Ah." Apollo smiled. "Well then, it may be useful to find something to hold on to."

There were precious few things on the horse's back that would provide any sort of stable grip. Grantaire only hesitated for a brief moment before he clenched his fists in the loose fabric of Apollo's shirt, careful to maintain a respectful distance, and told him he was ready.

Apollo grinned and urged the horse into a swift trot that, while gentle, was still a faster pace than Grantaire was used to moving at. He gripped Apollo's shirt tighter and closed his eyes so he would not see the forest streaming by too quickly. He tried to think instead of his next appointment at the palace and how it would soon be time to add colour to his canvas, but he was too distracted by the closeness of Apollo's waist to his hands and the tiny glimpses of his slim but strong shoulders he caught when he blinked.

Finally, the horse slowed and they came to a gentle stop. When Grantaire opened his eyes, they were at the top of a cliff that went straight down to the water, with the ocean stretching as far as they could see in three directions. The full moon hung in the sky, reflected perfectly on the barely-moving water below.

In front of him, Apollo sighed. "It's so beautiful."

"It is."

"I did not think I would ever see it again."

They did not talk about Apollo's situation, the particular demands of his peculiar confinement, so Grantaire did not reassure him that he would see it again, though he dearly wanted to make that promise. 

Instead, he rested his hand gently on Apollo's shoulder, ready to pull it away if he flinched. He remained relaxed, though, and Grantaire squeezed him gently.

"They say as far as the eye can see on a clear day is this Kingdom, and no one has ever sailed far enough to see what is beyond the border.”

Apollo scoffed. "That is ridiculous. No one can own the ocean, it is its own domain. And even if one could, the idea that a king could lay claim to territory that has never been touched, only seen, is beyond the realm of what one could reasonably claim to be able to steward safely, if you even believe the claim that that is what a monarchy is for."

His tone was gentler than it has been when this argument had come up before, but Grantaire did not want to risk it getting more heated. He took advantage of the closeness of their bodies to grab Apollo's wrist and stop his gestures. 

"Shhh. There will be time to talk of politics some other night. But we have only a few more minutes of this view before we must flee and get you home in time, so leave it be for now."

Apollo snorted lightly but let his hand drop back to his side. He didn't shake off Grantaire's grip so Grantaire did not release it, merely softened his hold so his fingers lightly circled Apollo's wrist.

Apollo leaned back against him, shivering as the breeze from the ocean picked up a little speed. Grantaire hesitated for a moment, but gave in and wrapped his arm in its heavy wool coat around Apollo's chest. Apollo sighed gently and relaxed into the grip for a moment before slowly pulling away.

He ran his hand down the horse's neck. "We should be off. If we are to move slow enough that you stay on the horse, at least."

Grantaire settled his hands on Apollo's hips and risked sliding forward a little, pressing his chest against Apollo’s back.

"You should have more faith in me, Apollo. With a firm grip I have been known to stay upright in even the shakiest of circumstances."

It was probably best that Apollo was too distracted with the horse to inquire how many of those circumstances had been of Grantaire’s own making. Instead, he laughed and stroked the horse's mane once more, before urging it to a brisk walk and then into a canter. There was silence except for the wind through the trees and the break of sticks under the horse's feet, and Grantaire could swear he could almost hear Apollo panting as he strained to keep the horse in line.

It was not long before they arrived at the clearing. The moon was perilously low in the sky and on any other day he knew Apollo would have just tossed a hurried goodbye over his shoulder while he set out running, but this time he paused after he slid down off the horse. 

He grasped Grantaire's hand where it hung limply by his knee and squeezed it tightly, meeting Grantaire's eyes for a long moment.

"Thank you."

Grantaire squeezed his hand back as tightly as he dared.

"It was my pleasure."

And then Apollo was gone. Grantaire didn't move, staying firm on the horse's back until silence wrapped the clearing again.

* * * * *

Winter was almost upon them, and Grantaire felt he did not have many more days before he would be forced to obtain a better jacket than the one he currently wore. It was not that he didn’t have the money — though that was a strange feeling, to think that he needed something and simultaneously know that he could probably afford it — but the chill in the air was a further reminder of the careful equilibrium in his life and how the weather might cause more change then he wanted.

He wasn’t worried about the guards and their fire — he was quietly confident that if they moved into a larger tent to avoid the weather that he would still be welcome — but he did not know how the winter would affect Apollo. He barely dressed for the weather as it was now, though he also seemed more impervious to the cold then Grantaire. But they were close enough to the coast that the winter would likely bring rain; if Apollo had no winter clothes, would he choose to stay indoors, wherever it was he lived when he was not with Grantaire?

But he could not let himself be distracted by such thoughts. The King and Queen had been away, and today was the first time they would sit for him in weeks. He did not want to waste what little time he had worrying about things he could not change no matter how hard he tried.

He had been to the palace enough times that he could mostly find his way through the halls by himself, though he was still flanked by a footman the whole way there. When he finally arrived, the Queen was already there, and for a moment he was worried that he was late.

"Don’t worry," she reassured him before he even had a moment to apologise. "You're not late. My morning appointment ended early and I decided to take my tea in here, to take advantage of the afternoon light."

"Of course." Grantaire inclined his head in the half-bow that had become familiar in the last few weeks. "If you wish me to wait in another room until you are done, I can—"

"Of course not." She waved her hand dismissively. "I would like if you would join me. My husband will be late, so we cannot begin to paint just yet as it is."

She gestured to the seat across from her, where a cup was already waiting for him, and he swallowed and sat down.

He carefully filled his cup with tea, neglecting to add sugar because his sister had always told him it was common, and sat in silence while the Queen sipped hers.

"I suppose you must think it troubling," she said finally, "that we would destroy so many paintings without a second thought."

Grantaire's hand froze on his cup. He had not thought for a second that this topic would come up, not when they'd restricted their comments during every previous sitting to the upcoming winter and the varied local preparations and celebrations.

He thought carefully before replying. "I would not presume to think that you did it without a second thought. But I do not judge anyone for doing what they must. If my painting were to cause you pain in the future, I would not wish you to keep it just for its own sake, and I cannot imagine any of those who painted the previous portraits would feel differently." 

The Queen took a last sip of her tea and set the cup carefully down.

"I do regret it sometimes."

Grantaire cannot say anything.

"At the time, I needed it. I love my son so much, and to look at his smiling face on every wall while knowing he was lost to me was unbearable. But the years have passed and now I sometimes wish I had an image to look at, to remember him by. Though that sounds strange, as if I could ever forget."

Grantaire swallowed again. "It doesn't sound strange at all, your Majesty."

"Yes, well." She brushed some nonexistent wrinkles out of her skirt. "What's done is done. I will see him again, some day. I hope."

Grantaire did not know what would be appropriate in this moment — how did one comfort a queen? — so he averted his eyes from her face until her hands stilled on her lap.

There was a knock on the door before he had time to say anything.

"Ah, my husband is here," she said. "We can begin."

* * * * *

The pressure in Grantaire's chest was bad enough again that he could not blame it on the weather, but he still had no explanation for it. It lessened slightly as he left the city walls and made his way to the stone tower in the forest.

The chill in the air was colder again, and the guards and their guest had all pulled in as close to the fire as they could. Grantaire took his usual spot, with his back to the trees, and held his hands out to warm them on the flames. Joly peeled something with his knife and Bossuet fiddled with something small that Grantaire couldn't see. Their guest was stirring something on the fire. He knew her name from hearing the others mention her, but had not been introduced and it felt strange to use a name he had not been given, even in his head.

On Grantaire's left, Feuilly was leafing through a large book and making notes on a sheet of parchment. He had always been the one to most readily assist Grantaire with his various requests for help, but also the clearest stickler for the rules, and this newest request might be beyond even his good favour.

"I have a request."

It took a moment, but the bustle of movement around the fire ended and they all turned to look at him. It was not the first time he had asked for a favour, but there must have been something in his voice or bearing that suggested that this was a more significant matter than before.

Grantaire took a deep breath. "You all know how I am acquainted with the Queen?"

"...Yes," said Joly.

"We spoke before I began painting last week. The Queen admitted that she sometimes regrets destroying all the paintings of her son, for now she has no images of him to hold with her."

He did not worry about securing an assurance of their confidence. He had long kept their secrets and trusted them to keep his, even if he was not always forthcoming.

"Are you asking what I think you are asking?" Feuilly had abandoned his book and turned to fully face Grantaire.

"I just thought... I am a painter, and I know the location of her son. It would not be too much trouble to bring her something, a drawing, a brief painting..."

The three guards exchanged a heavy look. Grantaire pushed himself up onto his knees.

"Just one night. One hour, anything, ten minutes. Just enough to capture his likeness so I can bring the Queen a picture of her son as he is now.”

It set the guards off, arguing amongst themselves and they spoke so quickly he could barely follow. They all know each other so well they often did not even need to finish sentences before moving on to the next one, assured the others would understand. He could only catch snatches of what they are saying. Feuilly insistent and Bossuet conciliatory; he did not feel that boded well for his chances, until the entire conversation was cut off by another voice.

"Let him." 

Grantaire had to blink. He had never heard the guards' guest speaking so loudly, or acknowledging him at all, for that matter.

"Are you sure—" Joly started to ask, but she cut him off.

"Let him." She sat up a little straighter and gathered her skirt tightly around her legs, before looking straight at Grantaire.

"If she loves her son, she deserves something. It's not fair that parents who profess to love their children but would trade their well-being for their own gain can keep theirs close, while parents who love theirs deeply must be separated. If this will help her, heal her pain even in some small way, then you should allow it."

The three guards all exchanged a look, and Grantaire looked away as he saw Joly and Bossuet each reach out to lay a comforting hand on the woman's shoulders. Finally, Feuilly sighed.

"We have to ask Bahorel, but if he acquiesces..."

That is the first implication Grantaire had seen that there was any sort of hierarchy among the guards, but he paid it no heed. If Bahorel was the one he must convince, then he was confident he could do it, and his gift for the Queen would be possible.

He had not yet thought of how to present the finished work to her, but he had time to find some explanation.

* * * * *

Bahorel hadn't taken long to convince once he arrived back to the fire, especially after Musichetta — and Grantaire had _finally_ been introduced to her — made the case for him again. Bahorel had looked at him for a long moment, making Grantaire had felt like his very soul was being carefully weighed, but he consented in the end. That was all that mattered.

He almost wished to begin immediately, flush with the excitement of a plan coming together so easily, but he had left most of his painting materials in the city, and it would take him longer than he could give to retrieve them tonight. The heaviness in his chest was still there, and carrying it with him lengthened his walk to and from the tower each week. Instead, he promised to return the next day, paints in hand, as soon as he had finished whatever errands were needed to maintain Madame Houcheloup's good favour.

The next morning, he feared he was useless. The few small errands he was asked to do were completed quickly but in a rather slapdash fashion, and he hoped that that would not earn him too much ire, though he felt he would not care if it did. He gathered his paints and a small canvas into a satchel and set out for the woods, already wondering how much of this day he could recount for Apollo at the next full moon. Surely Apollo could not be a danger as a confidant — he never mentioned anyone apart from his mysterious friends — but Grantaire was also aware that it was not his secret to tell, and he had already asked too much of the guards.

When he finally arrived at the fire, Bossuet led him further, until they arrived at the base of the tower. He had never been this side of the fire before, never this close to the tower itself, and Grantaire felt the need to shake himself loose of a slight hazy feeling.

Feuilly nodded in recognition. "You get used to it, after a bit."

Bossuet left, and Feuilly turned to face Grantaire. He rested a heavy hand on his shoulder.

"We can give you until shift change, which is a couple of hours. Don't touch anything and do not attempt to wake him. You absolutely cannot tell anyone but the Queen that you have been here, no matter what."

"I understand."

Feuilly stared at him for a long moment before dropping his hand from his shoulder. He picked up a large ring of keys, selected one, and opened the door. He watched carefully as Grantaire entered, then closed the door behind him, and Grantaire was alone.

The air inside the tower felt strange, warmer than the air outside, which shouldn't be possible. There was a fluttering in the air above Grantaire's head, and he looked up to see what birds could have made their way inside. But above him was only air and if he strained his eyes, a faint shimmer or sparkle.

He made his way to the stairs, clutching his satchel in his hands. The stairs were twisty and narrow, and took almost all of his attention to navigate correctly. What little of his mind that was not occupied with not falling was wondering what he would find at the top of the tower, what the mysterious Prince Enjolras would be like.

He had heard stories, of course, over the months he had been in the city. Many said the Prince was the most handsome man for five kingdoms, which Grantaire privately disputed, assuming those who said as much had never seen his Apollo. He knew only that he was blond, and likely tall, and for the rest had to wonder which of his parents' features would show in his face.

The fluttering grew more intense as he neared the top of the tower, so fast and close to his head that it almost sounded like buzzing, but still he could see no bird or insect anywhere. There was only the shimmer of the air and what almost seemed like the flash of light on glass.

When he finally reached the top of the stairs, the fluttering stopped, and he walked into a silent room. High windows let in streams of afternoon sunlight, and in the center of the room was a large canopy bed, its resident hidden by delicate curtains. 

Grantaire set his satchel down a few steps from the bed, and held his breath as he reached out to pull the curtain aside so he could finally see the Prince.

As soon as the curtain was drawn and he saw the sleeping man, Grantaire gasped sharply and his knees momentarily gave way beneath him.

Lying in the bed, one arm tossed casually over his head, his golden hair spread across the pillow and his perfect face smooth in deep sleep, was Apollo.

Grantaire fled.

* * * * *

Grantaire did not know how he convinced Feuilly to give him a second chance to enter the tower. In truth, he spent the next two weeks nearly in a fugue state, unsure of anything. He was almost happy that the King and Queen were away for the time being, even if it meant he had nothing to distract himself with, because it meant that he did not have to school his emotions so as not to arouse suspicion. How was he to tell them that he knew their son? That, far from being in an eternal sleep, he had ridden with Grantaire to the western cliffs and allowed Grantaire to hold his hand?

He did not know why the Prince has maintained this deception, why he allowed his parents to believe he was still cursed. Why he spent any time at all with Grantaire when there must have been other things to occupy his time. Grantaire feared he did not want the answers to these questions, but he was compelled to ask them anyway, so on the next full moon, he took himself back to the tower.

The walk from the city seemed to take longer than it ever has before, and the shortness of breath and heaviness in his chest had gotten so bad that the chill of the wind was enough to leave him gasping. Still, he pushed on, and when finally given leave to enter, he took a moment to lean back against the closed door and try and take a deep breath.

The fluttering above him felt different than it did before, louder and sharper, and if he could ascribe emotion to a sound he would say it was almost threatening. If he did not know better, he would almost think he heard the sound of voices high above him, talking over each other in a register too high for him to understand.

The air inside the tower felt heavier than before, and climbing the long staircase was a battle. He finally made it to the top and found the room exactly as it had been before, from the late afternoon sunlight streaming in through the windows to his bag of paints and charcoal, untouched from where he had abandoned it a week ago.

Even Apollo — the _Prince_ was unmoved, his hand still thrown above his head and his hair spread across the pillow. Grantaire placed his hand on the Prince's shoulder and shook him gently, but he did not move.

He tried twice more before giving up, for the Prince did not react in any way to the movement. Finally, Grantaire pulled over a heavy chair to wait by the bedside, confident that the Prince would be awake before long, as he had never missed a full moon since the first that he and Grantaire had spent together.

He tried to force himself to stay awake, but the hour was late and he was tired, so he found himself dozing in the chair. When he finally roused himself, the moon was in the sky already and he feared it was too late, that Apollo would have seen him already and fled, but a glance at the bed revealed Apol— _Prince Enjolras_ to be unmoved. 

Suddenly, a change came over the room, like all the air tightened and loosened again. On the bed, the Prince yawned and pushed himself upright. Grantaire stared for a second, entranced by this view of a sleep-rumpled Apollo, even if he tried to keep himself steady.

The Prince glanced about the room as if looking for someone, but when his eyes fell on Grantaire, he froze.

The stared at each other for a long moment, the air between them thick and heavy, before Grantaire finally broke the silence.

"I do not know which of us can lay claim to more surprise."

It took the Prince a moment to reply.

"I will cede that right to you, as my shock is only to your location, whereas yours must be regarding rather more."

"I must confess, of all the stories I imagined to explain your actions, this is not one I had considered."

The Prince folded his hands carefully in his lap and sighed. "I feel I owe you an explanation."

Grantaire smiled a little. "You owe me nothing, but if you wish to tell your story, I wish to hear it."

"When I was younger, a fairy placed a curse on me. That I would sleep forever, unless my true love kissed me before 100 full moons had passed. My parents knew too well that such a true love did not exist, and brought me here to keep me safe. My friends cast their own spell to help me be free, but I may only wake for these few hours on the night of the full moon, and tell no one my secret lest the fairy find me out."

"And so you spend your days sleeping and one night a month, you climb to the forest and explore the land around you."

"Until I met you."

"Until you met me."

He did not realise he had moved, but Grantaire found himself sitting on the bed beside the Prince.

"It must be hard."

Enjolras laughed, a bitter sound that seemed wrong coming from his face.

"I suspect it is harder on everyone else. I sleep for days on end, but my parents think me lost forever, and y—"

He cut himself off.

"And me?" Grantaire prompted.

"And you came to sit with me once a month even as I refused to tell you any details of myself, not even why I could not be there another night."

Grantaire grabbed his hand to reassure him.

"I felt no slight in your actions, I swear. A man's secrets are his own, no matter how deeply another might wish to know them." 

He laughed himself, only a touch less bitter than Enjolras' had been. "In fact, I might even find it comforting. To know that you could not spend a different evening with me, and not that you simply chose to avoid me at all other times."

The Prince looked shocked. "I would never choose to do so. I have spent many full moons throughout the forest, and the evenings I have spent with you I hold the dearest. I do not know what I would do if I did not have them."

Grantaire smiled and squeezed his hand. "You need not worry about that."

"I have no more than two years left before I sleep forever, you hardly wish to stay here—

"I would stay forever."

Enjolras bit his lip. "You would not. You would get bored of me, distressed to know that however much I care for you that my true love is withheld, and—”

"Do you think so little of me, of my word?"

Enjolras looked up at him. "I think the world of you, but this is a bigger sacrifice than I can ask."

There was silence for a moment, and like last time, Grantaire broke it.

"Might I kiss you?"

Enjolras blushed and looked at where their hands were tangled on the pillow.

"You know it will not break the curse."

Grantaire pulled Enjolras’s hand to his lips and pressed a kiss against the knuckles. "I know. I cannot lay claim to being your true love when you have loved your home for far longer and with far more passion. But if I can only have one night—"

"You should not put your life on hold for me."

"You have said so before, and my answer is the same. I would gladly have your affection and company once a month until these nights are gone, than never have it at all."

Enjolras bit his lip. "And when the time is up? When the hundredth full moon has passed and even my friends' magic cannot wake me?"

"Then I will kiss you one more time, and take my leave of this place. And though my life will be worse for no longer having you, it will be better for having had you in the first place."

"I cannot—"

"You cannot stop me from feeling the way I do, and you cannot force me away when I only wish to be here." Grantaire kissed his hand again before looking back up into his eyes. "But we have more than twenty nights left to have this argument, and tonight I want nothing more than to kiss you, if you will let me." 

Enjolras blushed again, but nodded, and Grantaire slid his other hand to cup his jaw and gently guide their lips together.

Grantaire was not expecting magic, and he did not get it. Instead, he got an armful of prince melting into his embrace. He was not surprised to find the Prince unpractised — when would he have ever had the chance? — but his enthusiasm was addictive. Grantaire barely had to nudge at his lips before they opened, allowing him to gently bite Apollo’s lips and slide his tongue into his mouth. Grantaire had a hand on his waist and one still cupping his jaw, while Enjolras' hands tangled in Grantaire's hair as they fell together against the pillows, lying together and clutching each other as close as they could.

Grantaire lost track of time, and before he knew it the moon was disappearing. In his arms Enjolras yawned.

"Don't leave me yet?" he asked.

Grantaire kissed him again. "I won't."

"And you'll be back next month." This time it was not a question.

"Every month."

Enjolras smiled and kissed him again, yawning before he was even done and setting his head on the pillow.

"Good night."

And he was asleep again.

Grantaire tried to force himself back to his feet, to leave the tower and return to the city. But the thought of his own bed was so unwelcoming, and he decided it would not be too much trouble to stay a while longer.

Laying next to Enjolras, warm in his embrace, he didn't even notice himself falling asleep.

* * * * *

Grantaire woke when the sunlight made its way into the room, and sighed gently when it landed on Enjolras' face. If anything, he looked even more beautiful in the daylight then he had at night, and Grantaire had already thought him as beautiful as a sculpture. While last night he had dismissed Enjolras's concerns about how difficult it would be to wait for him, now he could admit to himself that he did not know how he would bear waiting another month to hold Enjolras in his arms and feel the press of his lips again.

He knew he would have to tear himself away from the Prince and the bed and the tower before long, but he allowed himself one last look at the Prince's face, and held out his hand to gently stroke a thumb across his cheekbone.

Under his hand, Enjolras stirred, and Grantaire froze.

Suddenly, there was movement. Enjolras stretched his arms above his head and rolled tighter into Grantaire's embrace, before freezing and opening his eyes.

He pushed himself into a sitting position, ran his hands over his chest, and looked to the window.

"It is daytime."

"It is indeed."

"This should not be possible."

"Everything is possible when there is magic involved."

Enjolras flexed his hands in front of his face and started laughing, the beautiful sound bubbling out of him while his body shook.

"I did not think that I would ever see sunlight again."

Grantaire leaned over to brush the hair out of his eyes.

"I am glad."

"I did not think I loved you enough. No, that sounds terrible, I meant—"

"Shhh." Grantaire pressed a finger over his lips. "I understand your meaning entirely. In truth, I did not think anyone would ever love me, let alone enough to break a curse.”

Enjolras smiled again, grabbing Grantaire's hand and pressing a kiss to the palm.

"I am sorry, but I do not know if I wish more to kiss you again, or to see my parents."

Grantaire laughed and kissed him gently before pulling him to his feet.

"You have kissed me less than a day ago, and may do so again at any moment you choose, for the rest of your life. But for now, we can go back to the palace. Your parents arrived back from their travels last night and I can think of few things they want more than to see you right now."

"Yes, yes. We must away to the palace."

Enjolras ran across the room, pulling the door open with ease and starting down the steps, pausing only to yell Grantaire's name over his shoulder.

Grantaire took a deep breath and followed Enjolras out of the tower.

His chest had never felt so light.

**Author's Note:**

> okay you might have noticed there are some people missing from this. There is actually another story that runs along side this one, but there was no way I was ever going to finish this if I tried to work that story into this one. HOPEFULLY I will write it eventually, and even if I don't write it out properly I will definitely tumblr it at some point?? It's called The Three Stolen Princesses, so you can probably guess where it fits in.


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